Read Online 66° North by Michael Ridpath - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Ridpath
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like Magnus had returned to the land of her parents when she was an adult. ‘The Special Prosecutor’s investigation into Ódinsbanki is crucially important to OBG.’
Magnus shrugged. ‘You were only doing your job.’ That’s what lawyers did, impeded police investigations. That was the way thesystem worked and Magnus had given up railing against it long ago.
‘Look, here’s my card,’ Sigurbjörg said. ‘I know I kind of ran off last time we met. But give me a call, eh? Come and have dinner at my house. I would love to introduce you to my husband.’
Magnus took the card and stared at it. The law firm he recognized, and the address was the building they were in, of course. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I will.’
He didn’t mean it. He wanted to keep that part of his life safely locked away in its box. Sigurbjörg could tell he didn’t mean it. She looked disappointed.
She took the first lift heading up.
‘Family feud?’ Árni asked, as he and Magnus entered the next one going down.
‘I don’t know,’ Magnus replied, frowning. ‘You could say that.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘H ERE THEY COME!’
Sindri looked up at the mountainside and saw a stream of white burst over the ridge, as first a few dozen, then a hundred, and then more than a thousand sheep hurried down the slopes towards the pens. On either side of the flow were the black shapes of the dogs darting, crouching and running to keep control. In a moment a horseman appeared, and then another, and then some more.
It was a magnificent sight.
The crowd, mostly made up of the families of farmers in the dale, pointed and waved. The drovers had been away for three days scouring the highlands for sheep who had spent the summer roaming wild over the fells, gorging themselves on sweet grass. It was the annual
réttir
, or sheep drive, one of the biggest events in the farming calendar. It was the first time Sindri had attended since he had left the farm at sixteen, but the memories came flooding back.
He himself had been a drover three times from the age of fourteen. The first couple of times he had been filled with excitement as he had followed his father and his neighbours on horseback over the fells, looking for the ewes and lambs. The third time had been a disaster. The weather was bad, he had got horribly drunk in the rest hut on the last night, and his father had shouted at him for not pulling his weight on the drive.
Two weeks later he had left home to go to Reykjavík. Music, drugs and alcohol, and later London and more drugs and alcohol. His father’s disappointment in him was deep and unyielding.Which wasn’t quite fair. At twenty, Sindri had been the charismatic lead singer of the band Devastation, whose jumbled anarchic screams had reached number two in the UK charts. He was a sensation in his home country and in Europe.
But it lasted less than a year. The money meant the drugs were endlessly on tap. The songs lost any semblance of tune, and Sindri returned to Reykjavík.
He lost a decade of his life. Eventually he managed to pull himself together and got a steady job in a fish factory. He channelled the urge to rebel, tamed it and gave it focus. He joined environmental groups in Iceland opposed to the exploitation of the Icelandic landscape for economic gain. He wrote a book,
Capital Rape
, which contrasted the simple hard-working life of the Icelandic farmer who nurtured his resources and lived with nature, with the exploitation by the desk-bound urban capitalists who extracted resources and destroyed nature. Capital raped the world around it.
The book was big in Germany, and Sindri earned a bit more money. His father disapproved and Sindri very rarely came home. The truth was that Sindri was as distant from the farm of his childhood as the urban capitalists he ranted against.
Sindri scanned the familiar hills, resplendent in their golds and browns glistening in the September sunshine. The sky was a soft pale blue, dotted with jaunty puffs
Magnus shrugged. ‘You were only doing your job.’ That’s what lawyers did, impeded police investigations. That was the way thesystem worked and Magnus had given up railing against it long ago.
‘Look, here’s my card,’ Sigurbjörg said. ‘I know I kind of ran off last time we met. But give me a call, eh? Come and have dinner at my house. I would love to introduce you to my husband.’
Magnus took the card and stared at it. The law firm he recognized, and the address was the building they were in, of course. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I will.’
He didn’t mean it. He wanted to keep that part of his life safely locked away in its box. Sigurbjörg could tell he didn’t mean it. She looked disappointed.
She took the first lift heading up.
‘Family feud?’ Árni asked, as he and Magnus entered the next one going down.
‘I don’t know,’ Magnus replied, frowning. ‘You could say that.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘H ERE THEY COME!’
Sindri looked up at the mountainside and saw a stream of white burst over the ridge, as first a few dozen, then a hundred, and then more than a thousand sheep hurried down the slopes towards the pens. On either side of the flow were the black shapes of the dogs darting, crouching and running to keep control. In a moment a horseman appeared, and then another, and then some more.
It was a magnificent sight.
The crowd, mostly made up of the families of farmers in the dale, pointed and waved. The drovers had been away for three days scouring the highlands for sheep who had spent the summer roaming wild over the fells, gorging themselves on sweet grass. It was the annual
réttir
, or sheep drive, one of the biggest events in the farming calendar. It was the first time Sindri had attended since he had left the farm at sixteen, but the memories came flooding back.
He himself had been a drover three times from the age of fourteen. The first couple of times he had been filled with excitement as he had followed his father and his neighbours on horseback over the fells, looking for the ewes and lambs. The third time had been a disaster. The weather was bad, he had got horribly drunk in the rest hut on the last night, and his father had shouted at him for not pulling his weight on the drive.
Two weeks later he had left home to go to Reykjavík. Music, drugs and alcohol, and later London and more drugs and alcohol. His father’s disappointment in him was deep and unyielding.Which wasn’t quite fair. At twenty, Sindri had been the charismatic lead singer of the band Devastation, whose jumbled anarchic screams had reached number two in the UK charts. He was a sensation in his home country and in Europe.
But it lasted less than a year. The money meant the drugs were endlessly on tap. The songs lost any semblance of tune, and Sindri returned to Reykjavík.
He lost a decade of his life. Eventually he managed to pull himself together and got a steady job in a fish factory. He channelled the urge to rebel, tamed it and gave it focus. He joined environmental groups in Iceland opposed to the exploitation of the Icelandic landscape for economic gain. He wrote a book,
Capital Rape
, which contrasted the simple hard-working life of the Icelandic farmer who nurtured his resources and lived with nature, with the exploitation by the desk-bound urban capitalists who extracted resources and destroyed nature. Capital raped the world around it.
The book was big in Germany, and Sindri earned a bit more money. His father disapproved and Sindri very rarely came home. The truth was that Sindri was as distant from the farm of his childhood as the urban capitalists he ranted against.
Sindri scanned the familiar hills, resplendent in their golds and browns glistening in the September sunshine. The sky was a soft pale blue, dotted with jaunty puffs
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